


5 Times Aziraphale Noticed Something Was ‘Off’ and the Time He Realized Why

by Lucky (LuckyKid)



Series: Crowley Struggles With Self Harm [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Antigone (a character in a play they watch) dies by suicide, Canon-Typical Binge Drinking, Canon-Typical Blasphemy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Scars, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyKid/pseuds/Lucky
Summary: Crowley has been self harming for millennia. Of course Aziraphale has noticed times when Crowley was acting... weird... but it wasn't until their body swap that Crowley's past actions begin to make sense.Inspired by Zwergenmaedchen's fic, "Let me in before you drown"(https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340)





	1. 2045 BC (Canaan)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Let me in before you drown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340) by [Zwergenmaedchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwergenmaedchen/pseuds/Zwergenmaedchen). 



> This fic was inspired by Zwergenmaedchen's, "Let me in before you drown"  
> (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340)
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self Harm
> 
> This could be very triggering. It has little details that may just be too relatable for small reasons.
> 
> Please, please, be safe. Textable helpline: crisistextline.org.  
> Do what you need to to not hurt yourself (like maybe write self indulgent fic to vicariously go through the motions).
> 
> Note: in narration, Crowley is referred to as Crowley and he/him/his regardless of time period and location. In dialogue, he is sometimes referred to as Crawley

“Crawley, I just heard a rather interesting story,” Aziraphale said as he approached the being who was evidently two bottles of wine into his binge before the angel stepped into the restaurant.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley, who a moment ago was looking into his bottle as if he wanted to crawl inside it, had started beaming at the angel. “It’s been too long. I’ve missed you, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, hello.” He sat next to the demon but had started to second guess that decision as Crowley leaned in very closely to whisper something.

“I did something really stupid today.” The words came out slowly as if he was concentrating very hard on enunciating.

“Well, that’s actually why I came to find you,” Aziraphale said. “I had heard rumor that a demon did a very stupid, very risky thing, and I was hoping very much to learn that it was not you.”

“Oh, I don’t–I don’t know if I could help with that.” Crowley looked genuinely dispirited at the prospect of not meeting Aziraphale’s wishes. _Will he ever understand this demon_ , he wondered before pushing his bewilderment to the side for a moment.

“Let’s find out. Do you know Abraham?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s him! It was me!” Aziraphale tried to hush Crowley as he looked around the restaurant and gave a tight smile to anyone who seemed bothered by the sudden yelling.

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said in a rushed whisper, “I think you should sober up now. We need to have a,” Aziraphale paused to look around the room again, “A serious discussion.”

“Okay, just. Okay.” Crowley closed his eyes tightly and sobered up.

“I messed up, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, much more clearly than before. He poured himself another cup of wine and downed it in one gulp. “I’m gonna need that,” he muttered.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly happened today?”

As Crowley rested his head in one of his hands, Aziraphale noticed that, while the dark red curls of the demon’s hair were still very luscious, they seemed less bouncy in this deflated state.

“So, I caught word that God asked Abraham to kill his son, Isaac. And I had to stop that–for wiling reasons, obviously. I’m just… trying to doom God’s plans, you know, like with the flood.” Crowley swallowed before looking back up. Aziraphale had also heard God’s latest request. He was worried about it, but he had faith that the survival of Isaac was the plan all along[1]. “Well, next thing you know, Abraham’s on top of a mountain, ready to slay Isaac and I just, popped in. I called his name and said something like, ‘Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God cause you followed Her ridiculous orders and such.’ Not those words exactly, of course.”

“That was, clearly...” Aziraphale took a moment to build up the feeling in his gut so that his next word would be truthful, “wrong. God did give Her commands and you made sure they were disobeyed, but I also heard something about impersonating an angel.”

Crowley hissed inwardly at that and poured himself another cup.

“Ya. That happened. I may have implied that I was speaking for the Almighty and that She would bless him with many descendants and the like for following her orders. Also for not killing the son.

“And the really funny thing,” Crowley continued, “is that both Abraham and Isaac still have so much faith in the Almighty. After telling Abraham not to kill his son, the man said he figured that he wouldn’t actually have to do it anyway! And then! Then Isaac said that he knew about the plan all along and had agreed to it!”

In the tension of the moment, it warmed Aziraphale’s heart to know that, even though they were tempted under false pretenses, these two humans remained steadfastly faithful in Her love. 

Crowley took this time to drink slowly from his cup. He looked up at Aziraphale then back to his wine before quietly continuing.

“They’re fools for thinking She would have saved them from Her originally planned suffering.” Crowley didn’t even look up from his cup as he said what Aziraphale thought was probably the most blasphemous statement he’s heard in all of existence.

“Crawley, all She wants is for love and righteousness to prevail.”

“I’m beginning to think that all She wants is obedience and blood. And you know what? I’d be more than happy to spill some of mine to satisfy Her.” Crowley finished with a bitter laugh. “Perhaps that could help spare the humans from another massacre.”

This wasn’t like the Crowley he’d come to know. The demon may be cynical at times but this was much more grim than he’d seen.

“Why, erm, why would you need to spill your blood for Her?” Aziraphale tried to keep his voice level, but could easily forgive the shakiness he heard. It was a rather troubling statement that Crowley just made, after all.

The demon finally looked back at him. Stared at Aziraphale with his amber eyes for a moment, and then drank in silence until Aziraphale excused himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]Technically, Aziraphale had hoped this so strongly that his hoping had turned into a faith.[return to text]


	2. 441 BC (Athens)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: In this chapter, they see a play where a character dies by suicide.

“You ready?” Crowley flashed him a bright smile. His hair was shoulder length, shorter than Aziraphale was used to, but it suited him and made his smile seem larger.

“Yes, I’m excited. I’ve heard wonderful things about Sophocles’ work.” Aziraphale didn’t think this night could get any better. “How did you get us these seats?”

Crowley’s smile turned a little sly.

“I met the author at a party. Convinced him that if he scratched my back, I’d scratch his. It’s not likely I’ll return the favor.”

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale said. His cheeks warmed up then; it was getting rather crowded so a rise in temperature wasn’t unexpected.

\- - -

It was a tragedy, and very well acted. Crowley may prefer the funny ones, but they lacked the emotional depth that Aziraphale sought. The emotional depth that he found, right here.

The audience sat with rapt attention and watched on as the messenger describes how Antigone hanged herself. Aziraphale felt his breath get stolen away. After a minute, he realized that he actually had misinterpreted what was, in fact, a change in the energy coming off of his companion.

He looked over to see Crowley, staring intently at the stage. How tightly he clamped his jaw shut looked painful. Something about it reminded Aziraphale of a moment in a restaurant about 16 centuries ago. Looking back to the stage, Aziraphale wondered if this was perhaps too grim a tragedy for Crowley. In an attempt to offer comfort, he laid a hand on Crowley’s arm and squeezed gently. The effect was not quite what he imagined. When he squeezed, Crowley hissed, but it did pull his attention away from the play. He also pulled his arm away from Aziraphale to cradle it by his chest.

“Sorry,” Crowley whispered, looking away for a moment. “What do you think so far?”

“It’s very good,” Aziraphale said, though it was more of an automatic response. Crowley gave him a small smile before turning back to the play. Aziraphale’s mind wandered and he had a very hard time focusing for those last few minutes of the performance. Crowley’s arm didn’t return to its resting position.

When they left the theatre, Crowley moved to Aziraphale’s other side and then linked their arms together. Aziraphale wasn’t complaining; he was glad that touching was okay again. But holding Crowley’s right arm in his left, Aziraphale felt more confused than before.


	3. 1259 AD (London)

They were at Aziraphale’s rooms, drinking jovially, their camaraderie on better grounds this past decade than any time since before their tiff in the 1140s. Crowley had brought over a delightful few bottles of wine and the conversation had turned to a familiar topic: misinterpretation of Her Word. It reminded Aziraphale of news he learned of just that morning.

“Did you hear about that awful–awful thing that happened in Perugia?” Crowley just looked at him, glasses long since discarded. A goofy smile slowly forming before he shook his head, hard enough to make a sound as his red veil brushed against the fabric of his tunic.

“Flaganation–flaygralition,” Aziraphale took a moment to steady himself and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Flagellation. That is what they’re calling it.”

“Ngk.” Crowley broke their eye contact and leaned back, seemingly bored with the topic already. 

“...But then also murdering anyone whose religious views were diff’rent?”

“Well,” Crowley started before swallowing. “They’re humans, angel, what’d’you expect?”

Aziraphale thought about this seriously for a moment. He’d come to know that he shouldn’t have any expectations, really, when it came to humans. That never stopped him from being astounded by their actions, though, both good and bad.

“Well, I didn’t expect them to think th–that causing oneself t’bleed would somehow please the Almighty.”

Crowley’s gaze dropped and he went unexpectedly quiet. For the majority of their acquaintanceship, these moods were an occasional blip in what Aziraphale saw from Crowley. Since Golgotha, however, somber and cynical had become the norm. Unless they were drinking.

Usually, when Crowley had his momentary shut downs, Aziraphale was able to think back on the last few sentences to determine the trigger. He was drawing a blank this time, however. Death, especially when murderers try to use religion as justification, is not a fun topic per se, but it had become too common in the world to elicit this type of response. Whatever triggered his companion must be bad, though, because his hand started to drift towards his discarded glasses and his long fingers played over the frames. Aziraphale didn’t like seeing his friend [1] like this–like he needs that safety barrier between them.

“Y’know. They could just be–be doing what,” Crowley struggles on, “what they think is right. Not the–not the m’rdering part, ya. But. I mean, who the fuck are we to know?”

_ Oh _ , Azirphale thinks,  _ this is very bad _ . Crowley doesn’t typically curse at him.

“An–an–an’ it’s ineffable, ya?” Crowley’s picked up the glasses and was fiddling with them in his hands. “‘t’s not like they’re hurting anyone. B’sides the murdering.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley heard him right, or maybe the angel himself was mishearing things. “They are hurting someone, though. They’re, er, hurting themselves.”

“It’s their own fucking bodies, a’ight? Just.” He took a deep breath to collect himself. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about work right now.” And with that, Crowley slipped the glasses over his golden eyes.

It’s not that Crowley didn’t care about flagellation, Aziraphale reasoned. His repositioning of the glasses suggested that he cared more than he’s comfortable admitting. But then why would he say they weren’t hurting anyone when self harm was the very point?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Foe. He meant foe. They aren’t friends; they’re hereditary enemies.[return to text]


	4. 1667 AD (London)

He was looking down at the parcel Crowley dropped into his hands without even a hello. Crowley, for his part, was trying his best to seem nonchalant. His body wasn’t facing Aziraphale, but he could see part of Crowley’s eyes in the gaps between his face and glasses. Crowley was not looking where his face is purposefully pointed.

By this time, Aziraphale was finally able to recognize the affection he felt for Crowley, but was not yet prepared to think about what it meant.

“Hello old f–oe.”

Crowley gave a short, disinterested, “hi.”

“What is this?” Aziraphale’s question was laced with what he hoped was a convincing lilt of surprise. He knew, generally, what it must be. His first clue was that it was a rectangular prism and had a certain weight to it.

His next clue was the plethora of context with which to work. Ever since _The_ _Epic of Gilgamesh_ , Aziraphale had not been able to stop talking about his love of written stories. Since then, Crowley had taken to gifting books to Aziraphale. The first was _The Tale of Genji_ , though Crowley refused to acknowledge that it was a gift at the time. Azirphale loved the growing collection of books he’d built with Crowley’s help, though he did fear that it would soon be too large to store in his rented rooms.

In these past few centuries, Crowley’s gifted books had revolved around the retelling of their histories, with so few accuracies that it was absurd. But that’s what made it enjoyable. And what let Aziraphale hear Crowley laugh. The printed copy of  _ The Divine Comedy _ that Crowley somehow got signed was a favorite. The book in his hand now followed the same pattern.  _ Paradise Lost _ . Aziraphale was ready to sink his teeth into it. And while Crowley wasn’t much of a reader[1], he loved listening to the stories. It had become expected that, when Crowley gifted Aziraphale a book, the angel would then read it aloud while Crowley sat close by[2].

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said while wearing a warm smile to try to make Crowley more comfortable with the compliment he was about to receive.

Crowley finally faced towards Aziraphale. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards for a moment as his face gradually grew closer in color to his hair.

“Mm,” Crowley acknowledged before looking away.

“This really is very,” Aziraphale paused as Crowley looked ready to scowl if he dare said ‘nice[3].’ “Unexpected. I appreciate it.”

“I think,” Aziraphale added, as if the idea was only just coming to him, “that I may want to read this now. Would you mind if I read out loud?”

“I don’t mind, angel.” The way Crowley said it was so hopeful. This was a side of his friend that he liked to see, the sober, vulnerable, gentle side.

Aziraphale walked over to his settee. Crowley followed and curled up next to him, pulling his feet off the floor. He was warm next to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale felt even warmer, still, when Crowley took off his glasses so that he could rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“This First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole subject, Man's disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed; then touches the prime  **cause** of his fall, the Serpent.” 

He’d only read the first sentence when he felt Crowley squirming. It was not surprising. It seemed like Milton was trying to prod an exposed nerve.

“Are you okay, dear?”

“Ya, just. Let me try to find a more comfortable position.” Aziraphale was pretty sure that wasn’t actually the cause of Crowley’s trouble, but he held his tongue while his companion rearranged himself so that he was seated sideways, leaning back onto Aziraphale and gazing at the ceiling.

“what cause /   
Moved our grand parents, in that happy state, / …   
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? /  
The infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guilde, /   
Stirred up with envy and revenge..." 

Crowley had begun to fidget. His hands tensed and released. They didn’t stop moving.

"Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, /   
With hideous ruin and combustion, down /   
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell /   
In adamantine chains and penal fire."

He started playing with the cuff of his left sleeve, rubbing over where his wrist lay beneath the cloth.

Aziraphale thought Milton was getting too close to a pain Crowley didn’t discuss, but Crowley would tell him if it was too much, surely.

“Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, /   
Confounded, though immortal. But his doom /   
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought /   
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain, /   
Torments him. Round he throws his baleful eyes, /  
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay"

“Crowley?”

“I’m fine, angel.”

He did not sound fine, but that wasn’t why Aziraphale stopped reading.

“You’ve been scratching your arm like mad.”

Crowley froze and finally looked down at his arms to find that Aziraphale was, in fact, speaking truthfully. He practically jumped off the couch.

“You know, on second thought, I think I’ll skip this book. I’m not digging Milton’s style.”

“Dear, I could stop reading.”

“Nah,” Crowley waved off the suggestion. “You keep enjoying yourself. I’ll manage angel, really.”

Aziraphale took hold of the fluttering hand closest to him and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Will I see you later this week?”

“Do you want to?” Crowley asked with a coy smile.

“Oh, you wily s—silly.” He didn’t catch it soon enough and Crowley pulled his arm close to rub it against his side as if he were trying to scratch it but forgot how to use his hand. “I would like to. Dinner on Thursday?”

Crowley gave a sad smile as he flexed and curled his hands.

“I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In truth, Crowley wished he could be a reader, but he found the act to be headache inducing.[return to text]
> 
> [2] Over the years, ‘close by’ has gotten closer and closer.[return to text]
> 
> [3] Or kind or considerate or good.[return to text]


	5. 2019 AD (Tadfield and London)

Aziraphale was exhausted but wouldn’t dare miss a second of this just so he could close his eyes.

On the bus to London[1], Aziraphale has opted to sit right next to Crowley, an action that was usually restricted to the inside of his bookshop. The smile on his lips turned bittersweet for a moment before he drove his attention back to the present. Crowley was right, they were on their own side, and being on a side that wasn’t Heaven didn’t seem so daunting anymore. He had already jumped ship earlier that day; there was no need to return to the cold environment.

Next to him, Crowley was quietly beaming, biting a knuckle on his left hand while his right held onto Aziraphale. An unfiltered grin rested on his face as he looked out the window. Their fingers fit together perfectly and Aziraphale thought about how this is what Heaven was meant to feel like. He had let the fear of repercussions slow them down for too long. He knew this. Crowley’s unspoken love for him wasn’t a secret. He first knew, or perhaps he first accepted, that Crowley loved him back in 1941. He was fairly certain that Crowley has known that the love was reciprocated by 1967 at least[2]. Since then they’ve just been dancing around what isn’t said.

Now, though, he could hold Crowley’s hand[3]. It’s not like Heaven or Hell could plan to do any worse than what they were already expecting.

They sat in blessed silence for most of the bus ride. The world outside may still be a bit of a mess, but they were enjoying the slight buzz from the wine they shared and this moment together. After a while, Aziraphale noticed that one of them was handling the slipping away of the alcohol induced buzz better than the other.

It started with a slight bouncing of his leg. When the bouncing became more pronounced, Aziraphale looked over to see that Crowley’s earlier grin was faltering a little. He ran his thumb over his love’s knuckles to try to soothe him. Crowley’s leg paused for a second as he looked down at their hands and then up at Aziraphale, giving him a genuine and very soft smile.

“Hi,” Crowley said.

“Hello, dear.” His response made Crowley look away for a moment, his smile widened, and cheeks reddened. When he looked back, the bouncing in his leg had returned.

“Angel, I,” Crowley started. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley was still holding back his words or if what he wanted to express was simply too  _ ineffable _ . Regardless, he felt the love Crowley was exuding grow stronger. It made him feel warmer like it so often did when the two were near.

Crowley licked his lips. Aziraphale wished he could say he didn’t then stare at them, but that would be a bald faced lie. He wanted to kiss Crowley, very badly[4]. It didn’t seem like a good idea at this moment, however, because Crowley’s left arm had started shaking, joining his bouncing legs as an obvious indicator of his anxiety.

“Dear, are you quite alright?”

“Just–just nerves.” Crowley swallowed thickly. “I think the events of today are starting to hit me, but I’ll manage.”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and repositioned himself so that his friend could rest comfortably against him. He spread his arms in invitation.

“Come here.”

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. He clung to Aziraphale and burrowed his face into the angel’s neck. With his left arm stroking his friend’s back, Aziraphale used the other to hold Crowley’s hand by their chests. This stopped the fidgeting, for the most part. Crowley’s left hand cycled between flexing and balling into a fist for the remainder of the bus ride.

When they arrived in Mayfair and the bus stopped in front of Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale kissed the top of his head to signal him to get up. He thanked the confused bus driver profusely and then let Crowley lead him to the penthouse, hands clasped together the whole way.

As they rode up the elevator, Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing Crowley tapping his foot faster and faster. 

“Can I get you anything?” Crowley asked as soon as they crossed the threshold. “Wine? Cocoa? I have some tea stocked and an actual kettle in case you're interested. I probably have something to nibble on, too, if you want.”

As he listed these things, Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand to take off his coat. He reached out to take Aziraphale’s as well, ever the host. This change in distance didn’t please Aziraphale, and he stepped forward to rest his hands on Crowley’s chest.

“I’m good, dear, thank you.” He looked into the lenses still on Crowley’s face, just making out the look in Crowley’s eyes underneath. Crowley tucked his chin into his own shoulder for a moment and made a small cough.

“Um, okay, ya.” Crowley let his hands trace over Aziraphale’s shoulders and he started to relax beneath the angel’s palms. “You are.”

“Do you think we could,” Aziraphale looked over towards the hall that he knew lead to the living room, “sit down? Sort things out? I’d–I’d rather like to talk about what we are going to do.” With Heaven and Hell, with Agnes Nutter’s prophecy, and with the rest of their lives together.

Any relaxation that Crowley had managed in the last minute was gone now. He set his jaw and looked over in the same direction. Aziraphale felt his fingers grasp tightly onto his coat.

“Ya, um, first though, I think I want to wash up. Get the soot out of my hair. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thankss.”

His lanky friend took five steps to reach the bedroom and then returned with a fluffy towel and a soft case.

“You could just miracle yourself clean.”

“Ya, well, y’know,” Crowley said with a tight smile. “I don’t–it’s–it’s not the same.”

“I’ll be on the sofa, when you’re through,” Aziraphale offered. Crowley nodded and then headed for the bathroom. As he heard the water turn on, Aziraphale realized that Crowley still hadn’t taken off his glasses. He was quite relieved, however, when Crowley emerged from the bathroom, sans sunglasses and sans fidgeting for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Technically it was the bus to Oxford by way of London.[return to text]
> 
> [2] The love was, of course, reciprocated before then, though between 1941 and 1967, Crowley may not have noticed. Before 1941, Aziraphale wasn’t ready to admit his feelings.[return to text]
> 
> [3] They could also kiss, but Azirphale wasn’t sure that neither of them will discorporate on site if they did that so quickly after inching open the flood gates.[return to text]
> 
> [4] This is to say that his desire to kiss Crowley was very strong. It does not mean that he desired to give Crowley an inadequate kiss, though Aziraphale was sure that even the least coordinated of kisses would be worth fireworks if Crowley was involved.[return to text]


	6. +1 The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives (London)

When he saw his own body walking towards the bench, Aziraphale was too flooded with relief to remember his concerns. He had Crowley back. They had each other. And this was the first day of the rest of their lives, lives that would be shared and free of the stifling scrutiny that’s plagued their past.

At the Ritz, he remembered what was troubling him but decided to focus on the moment. They deserved to celebrate in this peace and joy.  _ God, Crowley deserves it _ . Aziraphale got lost in the unadulterated affection and even found himself physically leaning into the conversation.

It was as they walked towards the bookshop that Aziraphale started to wonder when to broach the topic. And how? It didn’t mean anything, he thought to himself, Crowley was still the same Crowley with whom he fell in love. Except that it meant everything. It meant that Crowley’s been hurting and Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. It meant that Crowley was likely still hurting now.

The topic Aziraphale had been pondering centers around something he saw down in Hell. There were many frightening things to see in Hell. It wasn’t hygienic, demons tortured souls and each other for fun, and the residents wanted to see Crowley obliterated. The most frightening thing, however, was what he saw when he stripped down Crowley’s body to step into the holy water.

Scars. Little lines, pink, white, and some still red. They littered his left arm from the wrist to halfway up his bicep. There were literally thousands of scars. Aziraphale had never seen them before, or rather, never on Crowley. He had seen similar enough scars on some of his late human friends to know what they meant. He wasn’t an idiot. Except that maybe he was, if this was the first time he was noticing these marks.

Heaven had given him plenty of practice compartmentalizing and he leaned on that skill in Hell to avoid suspicion. But now they were free. Aziraphale didn’t need to keep suppressing his feelings, thoughts, or words. Based on how Crowley reacted to him saying, “I love you,” last night, it seemed that perhaps Crowley needed the words Aziraphale had been holding back.

The question of when to voice his concerns remained on his mind for hours. They were walking back to Crowley’s Mayfair flat[1] when Aziraphale decided that it would be best to have Crowley choose when tonight the topic should be broached.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started hesitantly. He was gripping onto Crowley’s right arm as they walked. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it, angel?” Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with such patient compassion. How could someone this gentle do something so violent to themself?

“Well, it’s a rather difficult matter and I wanted to know where you thought it would be best to talk about it.”

Crowley pulled his head back in uneasy anticipation.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale said gently, stopping on the corner so he could turn and face Crowley head on. His fingers played with the lapels of his love’s coat. “I anticipate this will be a painful discussion for you. Where would you be most comfortable having it?”

Despair was already starting to show itself on Crowley’s figure. His shoulders slumped, his brows subtly furrowed, and the corners of his lips ticked downward.

“In bed.” And so that is where they talked.

\- - -

They were in the silk sheets, wearing the same cotton pajamas they each had miracled for themselves the previous night. And, just like last night, Crowley was on his back as Aziraphale rested his head on his friend’s left shoulder. They stayed like this for a few minutes before Crowley spoke.

“I’m ready, I think.” He was looking at Aziraphale and, when the angel looked up to meet his eyes, Aziraphale found it hard not to cry. He steadied himself with a breath he didn’t need.

“My dear, I don’t know–I don’t know how to start.” Crowley watched him in silence, making space for Aziraphale to voice his thoughts.

“You know how we switched bodies today?” Crowley nodded. Aziraphale let his fingers trace over Crowley’s shirt. “For that time, we–we were able to see every part of each other’s bodies[2].”

Aziraphale’s fingers circled over Crowley’s chest before heading towards his left arm.

“And, while in Hell, I saw your body take a swim, as you know.” Crowley was still listening attentively but Aziraphale could see that his implication had not yet been inferred. “Before going into the tub, I took off your jacket. And then your shirt.”

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped over the fleshy part of Crowley’s forearm and he let his hand rest on the sleeve there.

Crowley’s breathing had sped up in pace, but Aziraphale wanted to make sure he explained himself as clearly as possible. He also wanted to avoid dancing around the issue, as if it was something shameful to talk about.

“So I saw your scars.”

Watching someone go from dry eyed to crying is a heartbreaking experience. Every small detail is a kick to the gut. The first thing you see in this experience is the loss of tempo in the rise and fall of the person’s chest as their breathing becomes jagged. At that same moment, the previously silent movement of air starts to get louder. Then the person’s brows and cheeks start to twitch, as if they can sense distress but are terrifyingly uncertain of its origin. The final nail in the coffin is what happens to the eyes. Slowly, but far too quickly at the same time, the eyes get glossier. Water starts to build up against the lower lashes and then, when the tension breaks, it spills. It runs across skin and there is no more plausible deniability; you’re watching someone cry.

There are no words to describe the emotional ramifications of each of these details.

This is the same heartbreaking experience that Aziraphale faced in the late night silence of a Mayfair flat.

  
He reached up to brush his thumb across his lover’s cheek. Something in Crowley broke.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I’m so, so sorry.” He probably would have continued to apologize until sunrise if his sobs hadn’t choked out his words at that point.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale comforted. He ran his hand over Crowley’s forehead and through his hair. All of a sudden, Crowley was no longer on his back, but instead, crumpled up into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Shhh, I love you, Crowley. I love you.”

“I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

“Shhh, I–I’ve got you.” Aziraphale was finding it harder to speak around his own tears. “I’ve got you, love.”

\- - -

They lied there with Aziraphale holding his dear one until Crowley’s sobbing quieted to the occasional sniff. Crowley’s fingers that previously had tightly gripped Aziraphale’s nightshirt were now relaxed. Crowley’s right hand rested over Aziraphale’s heart and he stroked the blue fabric with his thumb.

Aziraphale kissed his love’s hair to prepare for his next question.

“May I see them?”

Crowley’s thumb stopped. As did his breath. Gently, his thumb started tapping against Aziraphale’s chest and Crowley nodded into his shoulder.

“Ya, just,” Crowley started. “Just be careful.”

He rolled onto his back, pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, and then offered his arm with an air of nonchalance.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and looked at his arm for the second time today. He took in the sight, felt nauseous, and then looked over at Crowley. His love lay on the bed, resigned and head turned so that he was looking in the exact opposite direction of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale switched which hand was holding Crowley’s so that he could reach over and run a thumb down his friend’s jawline. When Crowley turned back to him, Aziraphale saw tears streaming from his golden eyes once again.

“What are you thinking, my dear?” This was not a question that he’s ever asked Crowley, typically figuring that if Crowley wanted to share something he would. It also seemed like this was not a question Crowley was ready to answer, since he shut his eyes tightly and shook his head.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale cooed and stroked Crowley’s hair once more. “I’ve got you, Crowley. And you don’t have to tell me anything.”

After Crowley deeply breathed in the scent of Aziraphale next to him, he slowly opened his eyes to look at his angel.

“What do you–what do you want with them?” Crowley asked thickly.

“Well,” Aziraphale bit his lip and looked over the scars on Crowley’s arm. He reached out a tentative hand. “May I–”

“No!” Crowley shouted. He then added a quiet, “Don’t,” As if he didn’t just yell out.

Aziraphale was a little surprised but still very calm.

“Okay, I won’t kiss them. That’s perfectly okay, dear.” Crowley’s brows furrowed at this.

“What? No, that’s n–I thought you were–wh–why would you want to do that?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with concern. His love looked so vulnerable and beyond pained. Aziraphale thought his reasoning would be obvious; noticing that it wasn’t obvious to Crowley hurt.

“I love you, Crowley. I want you to know that and that I love every part of you.”

“Ssso you want to kiss my scars?”

“Yes.”

Crowley’s lips quivered as he formed his next question.

“Ngjk. C–c–cou–could you kiss me? First?” 

For all the cynicism and attempts at cold airs, Crowley really was a romantic at heart. The way he lay there, looking at something he found awe inspiring in Aziraphale’s eyes–this was evident. It was obvious, Aziraphale thought, and just as clear as the open look of desperate hoping that Crowley now wore.

A warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. He propped himself on an elbow and leaned down to kiss Crowley.

His lips were soft and smooth. Aziraphale couldn’t help the gasp he let out when they first parted. This is what bliss felt like.

He couldn’t place the taste, not even after returning to Crowley’s lips, but he was looking forward to becoming more familiar with it.

When he pulled away, he felt Crowley shiver.

Honestly, he could keep kissing Crowley until the actual end of the world, but he had a point to make. He looked down at Crowley’s arm and then back at Crowley with a pointed look. His love nodded back at him with less fear than he had when Aziraphale had first asked.

The angel shifted his position to sit back on his legs. He brought the marred arm to his lips and held Crowley’s stare as he softly placed his lips on the raised skin. Aziraphale did this over and over again until he saw a small smile grace his lover’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] While Aziraphale preferred the atmosphere of the book shop, his private rooms did not have a bed. The two of them had found out, last night, how comforting it is to lie next to another being and sleep. Or not sleep, in Aziraphale’s case. It was an experience they intended to turn into a habit.[return to text]
> 
> [2] Crowley was too asexual to suggest what they could have done in that time. Or perhaps he figured that this would not have matched the tone his equally asexual partner was setting.[return to text]
> 
> This story has a companion piece, "5 Times Crowley Self Harmed and the First Time Aziraphale Spoke to Him About It."  
> This is the next work in the series.  
> Some parts of that story are referenced in this work and vice versa. The last two chapter of this companion piece is Crowley's perspective in the final chapter of this work.
> 
> Trigger Warning: This companion piece is much more graphic in its descriptions of self harm and also follows the thought patterns of a character in a dark place.
> 
> (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993132/chapters/47336503)


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